It's not like I am miserable all the time. Or even most of the time. Cos, mostly I am generally actually pretty much okay, but there are these certain sharp minutes when the earth splits open—fractured chasms gape and gasp—and then, my friends, the lows are very low indeed. The womb of the world is ravenous for love; she sells seashells, and desperately craves the bitter chocolate of our company.

I have only vague memories of writing that last post. I had consumed nearly an entire bottle of vodka at the time (pro-tip: white spirits are the heavy drinkers secret weapon in avoiding the cruel consequences of the inevitably painful morning-after, or, as is more likely, entire next day) and was quite surprised at what I found when, finally, I forced myself to examine the archaeology of my bender. Don't want to worry you people unduly, you know this is just my way of blowing off steam, the all-important safety valve that keeps this poorly manufactured and much abused engine of indifference from overheating and exploding outright in an anti-climatic wheeze or cough. The faded yellow sign sticky taped to the side of the machine still reads: “Caution: contents under pressure” and “Intentional misuse of this device by deliberately concentrating and inhaling contents may (often) prove harmful or fatal (1 in 6 chance).”

You only see the valleys and the peaks. I have given you not my whole soul but only a biopsy, enlarged and exaggerated by the optics of the microscope. One of the reasons why I find the idea of the “mundane” so suspect I guess. The difference between apparent banality and novelty being merely a matter of the amount of repetition.

So how can a cake with so many layers as the inner life of a real person ever fail to be rich and delicious?

Take the frequently overlooked case of the common household door-knob. I don't know how they work. I might hazard a guess as to the workings of the mechanism, but still, I couldn't make one from scratch.